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Escalating stakes on WIP Wednesday

A good story raises the stakes, chapter by chapter. In my favourite stories, the stakes are high to start with and keep getting higher. I’ve enjoyed books where the stakes are as simple as the happy outcome of a love story. Even in those, the story requires raising the stakes: rumours or misunderstandings that threaten the outcome, family disagreements, incompatible life goals. Add a suspense thread, and the stakes can include the fates of dependents, even lives. Different genres, different stakes. Failure must always be a viable option, even if we, the reader, know the author won’t let that happen.

Today, I’d welcome you to share an excerpt where the stakes are rising. Mine is from The Darkness Within. My hero is trying to gain entry to the community. Sebastian, by the way, is a memory. He has been dead for 10 years, but he won’t stop talking inside Max’s head.

Finally, Faversham looked in Max’s direction. When he caught Max’s gaze, he tipped his head to one side, his eyebrows lifting in question. Max pushed off from the cart. Time to discover whether he could pass the prophet’s test.

The first questions were about his name and history. He gave an edited version of the truth. He was Zeb Force, a workhouse brat turned apprentice turned soldier turned wandering handyman.

Faversham was sympathetic. “Many soldiers have found jobs hard to come by,” he condoled. “You have no family to help you? Your old master? Comrades in arms or friends from your workhouse days?”

Sebastian, cynical as ever, perked up at that. “He likes that you are alone,” he observed.

Sebastian thought the worst of everyone. Still, Max told Faversham, “No, sir. No one.” In his mind’s eye, he saw Lion, anxious to get home to his beloved countess. “I haven’t seen anyone from the workhouse since I was eight. My old master—it was his death that sent me into the army. Those I fought with—the ones who survived—have their own lives.”

Faversham nodded, his face grave. “You have suffered many losses, Zeb.”

“I want a place to belong,” Max said, the fervent intensity of the words surprising him.

“What sort of work have you been doing?” Faversham asked, then held up a hand to stop Max’s answer. “No. What I really want to ask is what could you do in the community, Zeb? What are your skills?”

“I can turn my hands to most things,” Max replied. “I have shod horses, dug ditches, built walls, ploughed fields, stitched wounds, taken dictation to write letters, kept accounts. I can teach, too, if that is of use.”

Faversham’s eyes widened. “An unusual set of skills for a workhouse brat. You learned to read and write in the army?”

Max shook his head. “My master had me taught. He was a steward.” That was what Sebastian always said: ‘I hold the wealth created by those who came before me as steward for those who will follow.’ “He planned for me to replace his secretary,” Max explained.

“You outstripped your first tutor in less than a year,” Sebastian reminded him. “I was so proud. I gave you a holiday while I found a new one; do you remember? I took you with me to my hunting lodge.”

“His successor did not wish to keep you on? I’m sorry to hear that. Still, you found a place in the army. What rank?”

Max had prepared an answer for this. If he passed this test, he would be living at close quarters with Faversham and his people, so he was keeping as close to the truth as he could.

“Someone who knew my master  bought me a commission as a cornet. I made lieutenant by the end of the war. My commander put me up for captain, but they wouldn’t give the rank to a workhouse brat.”

“And your regiment?” Faversham asked.

Max named the regiment he had nominally been part of, though he’d gone straight from signing his papers to a hidden training camp that taught and tested the skills they’d recruited him for. The regiment was based far enough north that it was unlikely in the extreme that he’d meet any ex-soldiers who might be supposed to know him.

Faversham fell silent. Max waited, his body relaxed though his mind was on high alert. The disciples talked among themselves, a low murmur of voices a few yards away. The fair made more racket—squeals of excitement, gleeful shouting and angry yelling, vendors’ calls, babies crying, half a dozen different tunes from a score of instruments.

Finally, Faversham seemed to make up his mind. “Very well. I will take you, I must first tell you what you are choosing. You must turn your back on every one and every place you know. People enter heaven with nothing. What you see there; what you experience—you will love it, I am sure, but I invite you in for a trial period only. If we accept you and you accept us, you will be initiated and become one of us forever. If not, we will part ways with no hard feelings.”

He held out a hand. “Are you in?”

Max took it, and accepted the firm handshake. “I am, sir.”

“In Heaven,” Faversham explained, “I am called the One, and addressed as Lord or Father.” He beckoned to the three disciples, ignoring the bodyguards. “Courage? Justice? Peace? Meet Zebediah. He wishes to enter Heaven, and I have agreed.”

Max accepted handshakes and broad smiles from each of the three men. He was in. Now to see if Paul Stedham was still with the community. Briefly, he wondered if Paul was now named for a virtue. “I’d love to know what virtue they’d name you after,” Sebastian commented. “Vengeance, perhaps?”

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Tea with Harry

London

1919

Harry leaned his head into the wind. London’s weather proved as appalling as his grandfather remembered. He had three hours before the train left again, and he had been too restless to sit in the station. He left his friend Mac on a bench sipping a mug of hot black coffee while he wandered the streets his ancestors once walked.

He found himself drawn to an elegant square in Mayfair, and a grand old mansion. He couldn’t explain what drew him; it was just a feeling really. He stood for a long while staring up and the magnificent old place, while traffic zoomed by behind him, wondering if it could possibly be a private residence. Many of the grand houses had been turned into hospitals or schools. Some even housed museums. He gave into impulse and knocked on the door.

A man in the formal clothing of an earlier time greeted him. How odd, he thought. He soon found it even odder. “Welcome, Lieutenant Wheatly. Her Grace is waiting for you,” the strange man said.

“Her Grace?” Harry parroted.

“Yes. If you would follow me,” the man said. What else could Harry do? He followed.

The man led him to an elegant sitting room where a tiny woman with silvery hair and sparking blue eyes greeted him and invited him to sit. A wave of her hand brought a liveried footman with a cart containing tea and cakes. Conversation seemed unnecessary while they served Harry. What are these people? Reenactors?

“Pardon me, er, Your Grace, but what era are you meant to represent?”

“Era Harry? You are visiting me in 1819, but I’m getting ahead of myself,” the woman said.

Harry clamped his jaw shut. 1819? She must be mad.

“Let me explain. I am the Duchess of Haverford. I’ve known your family for generations. Why, your great grandfather visited me earlier this month. Of course he is just a gangly adolescent at the moment, and having rather a difficult time of it at Harrow.”

“My great grandfather? Randolph Wheatly?” He had been the last of Harry’s line to live in London, the first to migrate to Canada.  Randolph Wheatly died in 1893 when Harry was a toddler.

The duchess beamed at him as if he were a particularly bright school boy.

“The very one! You see, I know your family well, and so when I sensed your distress I had to reach out to you. It must be a very great distress indeed to come to me across… a century is it?” She gazed at him expectantly.

“A century. Surely you know it is 1919 and this…” he gestured around him with one hand, his expression troubled. “Confusing. What it is is confusing.”

The duchess chuckled. “I imagine it is. Let’s just say I knew you needed sympathy and a cup of tea and leave it at that. Don’t try to understand the rest.”

Harry felt his shoulders relax. It had been a long while since he had enjoyed such elegance. The chair and the tea were a far cry from army fare, and finer and more comfortable than even Rosemarie’s cottage—though he’d trade them in a heartbeat to be back with her.

“Suppose you tell me why you are in London and what troubles you,” the old woman said.

“I’m not staying here. I’m merely between trains,” he began. When she looked confused about “trains,” he wondered if he ought to explain the concept but decided not to. “I’m on my way to France to search for Rosemarie. We became separated in the last year of the war.”

“So much grief in time of war,” she murmured sympathetically. “I’m distraught to hear we’re at war with France again a hundred years from now. Does it never end?”

“Actually France was our ally. We fought the Germans for almost five years.”

“Which Germans?” she asked looking as puzzled as Harry felt. He recalled that the various German states unified late in the 1800s, long after this woman’s time.

He stared at her. Can this all be real? Surely not. “All of them, Your Grace,” he muttered.

She said something under her breath about never trusting Prussians, but she smiled up at him immediately. “Tell me about this Rosemarie. Why are you searching for her?”

“I need to reserve space on a repatriation ship to bring her to Canada. For that I need a marriage certificate. But I can’t marry her if I can’t find her. I’ve been given leave and I’m on my way back to Amiens to search for her and Marcel.”

“And who is Marcel?”

“Her son. Soon to be mine, I hope,” he replied.

“How wonderful! You are a fine young man, Harry Wheatly. Your great grandfather will be proud of you.”

“Now you best hurry. You won’t want to miss that… train, did you call it?”

He surged to his feet. “Yes train, and I most certainly don’t want to miss it. Thank you for the tea, Your Grace. It has been entertaining.”

“I’m glad to give you a respite. Now go find your Rosemarie, and God go with you.”

Moments later he stepped out of the mansion onto a busy street and rushed away dodging cars and rain puddles in the direction of St. Pancras Station.

Harry is the hero of  Christmas Hope, a wartime story in four parts, each one ending on Christmas, 1916-19.

When the Great War is over, will their love be enough?

A wartime romance in four parts, each ending on Christmas, 1916-1919.

After two years at the mercy of the Canadian Expeditionary force and the German war machine, Harry ran out of metaphors for death, synonyms for brown, and images of darkness. When he encounters color among the floating islands of Amiens and life in the form a widow and her little son, hope ensnares him. Through three more long years of war and its aftermath, the hope she brings keeps Harry alive.

Rosemarie Legrand’s husband left her a tiny son, no money, and a savaged reputation when he died. She struggles to simply feed the boy and has little to offer a lonely soldier, but Harry’s devotion lifts her up. The war demands all her strength and resilience, will the hope of peace and the promise of Harry’s love keep her going?

Buy links:
Barnes & Noble * Kobo * Apple 

Amazon: US * UK * CA * AU * IN

See yesterday’s post for an excerpt, a biography of the author, and a link to a blog tour and giveaway.

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Sunday Spotlight on Christmas Hope

A compelling story of love in impossible circumstances

I loved this book.

Caroline Warfield invariably engages our hearts, and Christmas Hope is no exception. Harry has the heart of a poet; a heart that is sickened by life with the Canadian Forces in the trenches of WWI. Rosemarie is a widow struggling to feed herself and her son, Marcel, while withering under the contempt of small-minded locals. Harry’s hunt for his lost bible brings them together. For Harry, Rosemarie and Marcel come to represent all that is good and peaceful. For Rosemarie, Harry is a light in the darkness.

The book follows them through four years, each ending in a Christmas, as their relationship deepens in brief encounters stolen out of the ruinous war. Even the end of the war does not bring peace for this small would-be family — Rosemarie has been evacuated out of the path of the battles, and she and Harry have lost touch with one another.

Part 4 of the book is set in 1919, beginning as Harry faces repatriation from Wales to Canada, his father’s well-meant interference in his future, and the influenza that devastated the post-war world. Rosemarie leaves her son with his uncle to search for her beloved. Nothing is easy.

I enjoy Warfield’s decent men and courageous women. Harry might just be one of my favourites. I particularly cherished his scenes with Marcel. As for Rosemarie, watching her overcome obstacle after obstacle, including her own self doubt, broke my heart — but I trusted Warfield to mend it again, and she did. Right at the eleventh hour, which is the best time, in a novel.

I strongly recommend Christmas Hope.

Christmas Hope

When the Great War is over, will their love be enough?

A wartime romance in four parts, each ending on Christmas, 1916-1919.

After two years at the mercy of the Canadian Expeditionary force and the German war machine, Harry ran out of metaphors for death, synonyms for brown, and images of darkness. When he encounters color among the floating islands of Amiens and life in the form a widow and her little son, hope ensnares him. Through three more long years of war and its aftermath, the hope she brings keeps Harry alive.

Rosemarie Legrand’s husband left her a tiny son, no money, and a savaged reputation when he died. She struggles to simply feed the boy and has little to offer a lonely soldier, but Harry’s devotion lifts her up. The war demands all her strength and resilience, will the hope of peace and the promise of Harry’s love keep her going?

Buy links:
Barnes & Noble * Kobo * Apple 

Amazon: US * UK * CA * AU * IN

Excerpt

Harry woke with a stab of fear. He reared up, groping for his rifle, afraid he had fallen asleep on duty.

He sank back into the bed as awareness flooded in. No enemy lurked. He reposed in soft covers in an unfamiliar room, his clothes had gone missing, and he wasn’t alone. A small boy watched him steadily from the doorway. Memory flooded back—fleeing from Lens, frantic to get to Rosemarie. He hadn’t deserted; he’d gotten leave or rather had it thrust on him with orders from Captain Mitchell to come back whole. He remembered a frantic journey, reaching her cottage, falling against the door, and not much else.

“You are dirty,” the boy said, approaching the bed. Harry ran a hand across the stubble on his face. It came away filthy.

“Apparently so. And you are tall, much too tall to be Marcel.”

The boy stiffened in offense. “I am Marcel. I am three.” He held up three fingers.

Before Harry could think what to say next the boy ran to the stairs shouting, “Maman, ‘arry is awake!”

His soldier’s instinct took stock of his surroundings. The room spread out under peaked roof beams. He doubted he could stand upright anywhere but the center of the room; it had only one way out, the direction Marcel had taken. He had slept in an actual bed. Rosemarie’s bed, it has to be. Did we share it? He thought not. If we had, I would certainly remember.

The blankets he lay in were worn and mended, but warm enough and clean—at least they had been until he lay in them. Since whoever took his clothing left his drawers and nothing else, he thought it best to stay nested where he lay. A tiny window at the peak of the roof let in a beam of light. It appeared to be slanted low in the sky. Does that window face east or west? Did I awake at dawn or sleep round the clock?

He could hear the boy talking with his mother and the sounds of pots and pans. Sharp awareness told him one more thing. Somewhere in this haven, fresh bread baked, sweet dough, he thought. His mouth began to water. With that, came the realization of gnawing hunger.

He debated what to do, undressed and feeble as he was. He envisioned Rosemarie fussing over her baking, and an even greater hunger overcame him, one he might do well to tame before he got out from the covers.

Her appearance in the doorway, his own vision of heaven itself, carrying a basin of steaming water, saved him the decision.

She put it on the little three-drawer chest against the opposite wall, along with the towel and rag she had over her arm.

“You’ll want to wash up,” she said. “I’m sorry we have no bathing tub. I found Raoul’s robe in storage,” she added, pointing to a purple robe draped over a trunk. The trunk, Marcel’s pallet at the foot of the bed, and a chest of drawers furnished the tiny room. She looked oddly shy, as if having him tucked in her bed with her late husband’s things nearby made her awkward.

Raoul. He had forgotten the husband, long dead now. The acid of pointless jealousy ate at him, and he could think of nothing to say. He sat up, letting the blanket fall to his lap, and her eyes dropped to the floor, but not before he caught the heat when she spied his naked chest. The jealousy fell away.

For more about the book and a giveaway, go to Silver Dagger Tours. The stops are near the foot of their tour post, and the Rafflecopter is under that.

Meet Caroline Warfield

Caroline Warfield

Award winning author Caroline Warfield has been many things: traveler, librarian, poet, raiser of children, bird watcher, Internet and Web services manager, conference speaker, indexer, tech writer, genealogist—even a nun. She reckons she is on at least her third act, happily working in an office surrounded by windows where she lets her characters lead her to adventures in England and the far-flung corners of the British Empire. She nudges them to explore the riskiest territory of all, the human heart.

Visit Caroline’s Website and Blog                http://www.carolinewarfield.com/

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Caroline’s Other Books

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Making glass for windows

Until the early 20th century, all glass was hand-blown. This video shows how they made large sheets back in the day. Invented in the 17th century, it was expensive and didn’t become the common method until the early 19th century. Something to keep in mind when writing a scene in which someone is seen in a window is that such glass had ripples and faults. The view would have been distorted to some extent.

Even more so before that, for all those centuries when window glass was crown bullions, or bullseye glass, as shown below. This video also shows the cylinder method.

 

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The romance that broke their heart on WIP Wednesday

A common trope in most genres is the relationship in the past that failed–the man or woman who broke our protagonist’s heart (or, at least, they thought so at the time). It’s particularly common in romance, and this week I’m inviting you to share an excerpt when this past relationship is mentioned.

I’ve got an excerpt from The Gingerbread Caper, which I’ve just finished. Woohoo! In my excerpt, my heroine actually finds an old boyfriend… well, you’ll see.

What Meg saw when she opened the kitchen door brought her to a halt. For a moment, she thought of screaming for Patrick’s help, but then she recognized the man searching through the drawer of the desk where Aunt Margaret planned menus, recipes, and cake decorations.

“Sam Thurston, as I live and breathe. Put those down and step away from the desk.”

The invader turned, the boyish grin already in place, the grey-green eyes calculating behind the dark-rimmed glasses. “Meg Fotheringham. How delightful to see you. How have you been keeping? I follow your career, you know. Have you sold your first million yet?”

Meg ignored the provocation. “What are you doing here, Sam?”

“Looking up an old friend. We had some good times, Meg, didn’t we?”

Yes, until Meg discovered that he was seeing their manager on the side. They’d both been under a six month contract to the same newspaper, new graduates with shiny new journalism degrees. When she challenged him, he’d told her that sleeping with the boss was business, and didn’t affect how he felt about Meg. He was just making sure he was front runner for a permanent position.

He’d got it, too, but he’d lost Meg.

Had there ever been a time that she’d enjoyed his refusal to take anything seriously? “You’ve seen me. You know where the door is. Close it on your way out.”

Instead, he hooked his foot around a stool leg and dragged it close enough to sit on. “Harsh,” he commented. “I’ve driven all this way. Surely you can grant me a few minutes?”

Meg probed the once tender place that his betrayal had left and found nothing but irritation. Had she truly once fallen for this git? “Then you no doubt came with a purpose. Get on with what you want, Sam. The sooner I say no, the sooner you get out of here. I’ve a lot to do this evening.”

She pulled a pot from the stack under the workbench and measured the butter into it, then added the brown sugar and the molasses. She set the spices ready next to the stove, turned on an element, and measured the dry ingredients into bowl.

“I wouldn’t say no to a coffee,” Sam suggested.

“The pub down the road serves a good brew. I’m busy, Sam.” She moved the pot to the element, and began to stir, clattered the spoon with more force than needed, enjoying the way he winced at the noise. If he thought their personal history meant he was a frontrunner for interviewing her, he had another think coming.

Not that she had would-be interviewers coming out of her ears. She sighed. Maybe she should be nicer to him. “Who are you working for now, anyway?”

“Myself, darling. I’m freelancing for a number of publications, and I think you’re sitting on a story we could sell at the highest level. Maybe The Listener or Metro. Maybe even one of the English dailies. Come on! You know you could do with the exposure.”

There went any inclination to be nice. “Sam, get to the point or get out.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I know what’s going on with your Aunt Margaret. I know where she is, and I know what she’s been doing.”

That’s what this was about? Aunt Margaret? “Good for you.” Which explained why he was ratting around Aunt Margaret’s desk, though what he thought was newsworthy about the contents remained a mystery.

“So which was it? MI5? MI6? NID? I know she’s in London doing a television expose of her life undercover, Meg.”

Meg, who had just added the spices to the pot on the stove, stopped mid-stir. He thought Aunt Margaret was a spy? She forced her voice to sound calm and indifferent, though tinged with real amusement. “Really, Sam? You are letting your imagination run away with you.”

Sam pounced. “Where is she, then?”

In her profession, they called the transition from journalist to public relations crossing to the dark side. An experienced journalist took with them into their new career all the techniques honed during hundreds of interviews and used them to answer the questions they wished the journalist had asked while ignoring the ones actually used.

For the briefest of moments, she was tempted to answer with the truth: In London with a television crew. But that would just confirm him in his mistake.

Meg stirred the dry ingredients into the melted mix in the pot, focusing on that while she thought about an answer that would deflect Sam. No point in telling any part of the truth. For one thing, Sam wouldn’t believe her. For another, she had promised to keep Aunt Margaret’s errand a secret until it was announced, just before Christmas. If she gave Sam half an inch of the truth, he’d keep pulling till he had the whole yard.

A straight refusal is best. One he can’t make anything of.

“Sam, I’m going to tell you one fact, and nothing more. You’re wrong. I’ll say no more than that. Aunt Margaret’s reasons for going away are her own, and nobody else’s business. Now go away and let me get on with the work.”

He cajoled, coaxed, claimed ‘the public have a right to know’, became horridly insulting about her past and present career. Meg let it wash over her as she rolled gingerbread out on baking paper, laid her pattern pieces on it, cut around them with a sharp knife, and slid the baking paper onto an oven slide. And repeat. She was making small squares, about 3 inches a side, which she would turn into miniature houses as a test of her favurite recipe in this oven, before she made the main piece. The houses would become a village clustered below her planned castle.

Ignoring Sam wasn’t working, so she repeated her last few words over and again, like a broken record. “I’ll say no more, Sam. Go away and let me get on with the work.”

In the end, he left. That wouldn’t be the last of it, of course. He smelled a story and would keep chasing it. He’d interview anyone who would speak to him. But Aunt Margaret had told no one but Meg why she was heading to England, so all he’d get was the story Aunt Margaret had told—of an urgent request from an old friend—and their speculations.

Meanwhile, with the gingerbread in the oven, Meg had a lodger to feed and more baking to do.

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Tea with Hopkins

Tristan Trent, the Marquess of Hopkins, hadn’t wanted to speak of matters that should remain private, but the rumors had reached the ears of Her Grace. If it were anyone else, he’d tell them to go hang, but this was the Duchess of Haverford, and perhaps she could help still the gossiping tongues come spring.

He pulled at his tight cravat. Nerves he hadn’t experienced since he was a lad entering Eton for the first time coursed through him as he followed the livered footman to the parlor where Her Grace awaited him.

“Hopkins, thank you for joining me,” Her Grace greeted, as a cup of the most delicate porcelain was presented to him.

“It is I who should thank you for the audience.”

Her Grace’s eyes twinkled. “You are wishing me to Hades, my dear. But you shall forgive me. I have heard the rumors, and I mean to help if I can. But first, I must know the truth for myself.”

“Yes, well, the truth.” He resisted the urge to pull at his cravat again as he settled across from the Duchess of Haverford.

“Is your wife truly back from the dead?”

It was the question everyone asked and wondered about. Everyone presumed Elaina dead, but Tristan never gave up hope, even when urged to do so and told to marry again and provide a mother for his small children. “She is,” he answered simply.

“How? Where was she? We all assumed….”

“It was a reasonable assumption.” He took a sip of the tea. “My wife, Elaina, washed up on the shores of Alderney, where she remained for three years.”

“I am informed that she didn’t recall who she was, or where she came from.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” he answered. “The only knowledge she possessed was her name because another sailor, who also was washed overboard, had heard it called out before the tragedy. He could only supply that she was on a merchant ship traveling from Saint-Malo, France to Plymouth.”

“Nothing else?”

“No. He’d not known of her presence before the storm struck and everyone had come up on deck to abandon the ship, which was soon to sink because of damage from the storm. For three years Elaina knew nothing else. When my brother, Harrison, visited Alderney and a man he hoped would be a business associate, and was introduced to her.”

“Did she remember your brother then?”

“No. Seeing his face, a man she’d known several years, stirred no memories.”

“Oh dear.”

EXCERPT:

Elaina took a deep breath. Fear clutched at her heart, as she followed Harrison into the inn and remained silent when he inquired as to which chamber his brother could be found, and then followed him up the stairs until they stood before a dark wooden door and knocked.

A petite woman with blond hair answered the door. “Harrison!” she cried, clearly happy to see the man.

“So, this is where my family is,” he announced and stepped into the set of rooms. Elaina didn’t follow and tried to breathe through the anxiety crushing her chest. “It’s a good thing that I stopped at my home and discovered the various notes, or we would have traveled directly home and missed you completely.”

“We?” a voice questioned.

“Yes, we,” Harrison cleared his throat. “And I’m happy to be the one to facilitate this reunion.” At that, Harrison stepped aside and held out a hand to her. “I found Elaina.”

She allowed Harrison to pull her into the parlor and glanced around at the sea of shocked faces.

“Oh dear,” the blonde woman sighed.

“Elaina is it truly you?” a gentleman with dark hair set a glass aside and slowly crossed the room, staring at her as if he couldn’t believe that what he was seeing was real.

She had no response as she studied his appearance from the dark hair to the brown eyes, aquiline nose, firm lips and strong jaw, hoping for a sense of familiarity, but he was just as much a stranger as everyone else in the room.

“I can’t believe you’re back. I hoped, prayed…”

Before she knew what was happening, the stranger pulled her into an embrace. “Elaina, thank God you’ve come back to me.”

His voice was heavy with emotion and all she could surmise was this must be her husband.

He pulled back and looked down at her, and if she wasn’t mistaken, there was a light misting in his eyes as if he were near tears. Had he loved her so very much?

“Where were you? What happened? We thought you’d drowned.”

Elaina quickly glanced at Harrison and hoped for his assistance.

“Tristan, there is something you must know.”

His brow furrowed with concern. “I’m certain you’ll explain all of the details,” he dismissed and took Elaina’s hand, drawing her further into the room.

“Elaina doesn’t remember who she is.”

He stopped and turned. “What?”

“She washed ashore after the shipwreck and never recovered her memory of who she is, where she came from or why she was even on a ship,” Harrison explained.

Tristan’s eyes widened, and he studied her again. “Is it true? You don’t know me?”

At that, the tears threatened, but Elaina blinked them away. Harrison had told her that Tristan was her husband and Elaina had prayed that once she gazed upon his face that her memory would return. Except it hadn’t. Everything about her life before she woke in Alderney was gone, an empty canvas, and now she feared that it would never return.

The Forgotten Marquis

For three long and lonely years, Tristan Trent, the Marquess of Hopkins, waited for his wife Elaina’s return. Eyewitnesses insist no one could have survived the storm that swept her overboard, but Tristan refuses to give up hope—even when he is trapped into a betrothal he doesn’t want and forced to declare Elaina dead.

Elaina Trent has no memories of her life before waking in Alderney surrounded by strangers, and three years of trying to recall an elusive history has left her life in limbo. Determined to have a future even though her past is gone, she accepts a marriage proposal and a promise for a new life. But when a man claiming to be her brother-in-law stumbles across her, Elaina has no choice except to end her engagement and return to a husband she no longer knows.

When Elaina and Tristan are finally reunited, she still cannot recall what they once shared. Can she begin anew with a gentleman she doesn’t even know and hope that love grows once again, or will they remain strangers forever?

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BN/Nook: http://bit.ly/2ls4V17

Meet Jane Charles

USA Today Bestselling Author Jane Charles lives in the Midwest with her former marine, police officer husband. As a child she would more likely be found outside with a baseball than a book in her hand, until one day, out of boredom on a long road trip, she borrowed her sister’s romance novel and fell in love. Her life is filled with three amazing children, two dogs, two cats, community theatre, and traveling whenever possible. Jane has authored romances set in the Regency era as well as Contemporary/New Adult.

JaneCharlesAuthor.com

Jane can be contacted at: janecharles522@gmail.com

Twitter: @JaneACharles

FB: https://www.facebook.com/JaneCharlesAuthor/

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Physical book launches

I’m just checking the page proofs for the print versions of the first 4 books in the Golden Redepenning series. I’m using a New Zealand printer for a physical book launch in the first book shop in New Zealand to carry my print books, Almo’s Books, in Carterton.

I’m organising long distance, since I didn’t get everything done before I received the three grandchildren I’m looking after while their mother has a much overdue and well-deserved holiday. I had them at my place last weekend, and now I’m at theirs for a week.

Aren’t the colours great? I wanted each of the books to be different, but clearly related. The spines need a bit of adjustment, but the printer emailed me the measurements, and I fixed them before I left Featherston.

I could maybe have used reversed text for my author piece on Realm, but otherwise, I’m pretty happy.

Now to check the contents.

Sometime in the next two days I need to print the posters I made before I left, and email them to the 5 local libraries and the various community centres with a request to put them up on noticeboards.

I’ve made a Facebook event, and I need to share it around. I’d like to get my invitations handed out on the train where I wrote at least half of each novel, but I’ll have to figure out how to do that long distance.

And then I need to update the sales one-pager for each book and send it to bookshops, and make sure that my updates at the National Library and Nielson Book Editor have taken effect.

And write a speech.

All this while prioritising the grandchildren and the day job. Sigh.

Meanwhile, I’m close to finishing The Gingerbread Caper, and the house is back on the market with a new agent — I still have the windows and oven to clean and one large garden to weed, but we’re at least ready for the photos, if not for the open homes.

Lists. I need lists

If you’re in the Wellington area on 24 September, please join me for a convivial evening at Almo’s Books. 6pm to 7.30 pm. I’d love to see you.

You're invited to the launch of Unkept Promises.

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Comedy on WIP Wednesday

I love to read well-written comedy. Terry Pratchett is one of my favourite writers. In our favourite genre, Sally McKenzie is hilarious, Sophie Barnes can make me giggle, and Lorraine Heath is great at setting two unlikely people at one another’s heads for comedic effect. They’re just a few of the writers I enjoy. I’ve just read Amy Quinton’s latest Umbrella Chronicles story for next year’s Bluestocking Belles’ box set, and chuckled all the way through.

I’m not naturally a comedy writer, though I like to include wry humour in my books, and comedic moments. This week, I’m inviting you to post an excerpt in which you use humour. Mine is from my contemporary novella for Authors of Main Street, The Gingerbread Caper, which is as near as I’ve got to romantic comedy.

Patrick slept for the rest of the afternoon, waking disoriented in the unfamiliar room. He rolled onto his back and lay for a while, reorienting himself. He was in Valentine Bay, in a comfortable bed in a charming upstairs flat that looked out to the sea across the pohutaukawa trees that fringed the beach. He had nothing to do except relax and get well for at least the six weeks’ leave his doctor and manager had both ordered him to take. The time was — he turned his head to check the digital clock on the bedside table — just after six o’clock. The landlady was what he’d heard described as a pintsized Venus, who presence robbed him of sense, language, and—almost—breath.

The last circumstance very nearly cancelled out all the benefits of the accommodation and the location.

He sighed. He would need to grow accustomed, and he had better start by having a quick shower and getting downstairs for his dinner. With Meg Fotheringham.

He came out of the shower to find Mr. Major asleep on his bed, curled up on top of the clean underthings and t-shirt he’d left ready. Surely he had put the cat out before he lay down?

He’d told Meg he liked cats, which was something of an exaggeration. He had little experience of animals, having lived all his adult life in city apartments or boarding houses that didn’t allow them.

“How did you get in, cat?” The cat didn’t acknowledge him by so much as a twitch. Patrick made to tug the clothes out from beneath the beast and felt a sting as Mr. Major shot out a paw and sunk four sharp claws into his hand. One slitted eye glared at him, and the cat emitted a fierce yowl, half-way between a growl and a meow.

Patrick stifled his own yowl, and used one finger of the other hand to carefully detach the claws, whipping both hands out of reach just in time to miss an repeat engagement. Jumping backwards caused the towel he’d wrapped round him to slip, and he caught it before it dropped all the way to the floor. He wasn’t about to evict the cat without at least the semblance of some protection.

“Off my clothes, cat,” he menaced. Mr. Major tucked itself back into a curl, one paw over its nose. Both eyes remained open a slit to watch what Patrick meant to do next.

“Alright. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Patrick stripped back the blanket that covered the bed, tipping cat and clothes onto the floor. The cat swore at him—tone and glare quite unmistakeable—and shot under the bed.

Patrick retrieved his clothes. At least they weren’t covered in cat hair. He picked a few errant hairs off the dark background of the t-shirt and dressed, ignoring the feline under the bed.

Ready to go downstairs, he took a quick look around the place, searching for an opening that might have allowed the cat in, and that would let it out again. The window in the bathroom was over a sheer drop. Two other windows had catches that allowed only an inch or so of opening.

He addressed the cat. “How did you do it?” Twenty past six. He’d better hurry. He stooped, and met the cat’s amber eyes. It was up against the wall at the head of the bed—too far to reach even if he’d been prepared to have his hands shredded.

“If you misbehave while I’m out, I’ll make a hat out of you,” he threatened.

When he opened the door, the cat shot out, almost tripping him over at the top of the stairs. He caught himself, and followed the fiend downstairs.

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Tea with the Society

In the following passage from the novella Melting Matilda, my heroine (a ward of the Duchess of Haverford) is attending a meeting of a society formed to offer succour to war veterans and their families. Their patroness is, of course, The Duchess herself. Click on the title to read more about the novella, and the Fire & Frost page on the Bluestocking Belles’ website to read about the other five stories, all of which involve The Ladies’ Society for the Care of the Widows and Orphans of Fallen Heroes and the Children of Wounded Veterans and the events they organise during a cold January and February in 1814.

Matilda and her sister Jessica entered one of the less formal parlors, where the duchess waited for them, her current companion at her side, and Cedrica Fournier, her previous companion, already seated before a table, pen and paper ready to take notes.

Madame Fournier had left her position to marry, but she had volunteered to be secretary for this committee. Jessica and Matilda took turns in greeting her with a kiss in the vicinity of her cheek, and as they did, the other ladies began to arrive.

The first part of the meeting was given over to reports. The work of the Society was organized by small groups, sometimes as few as two or three ladies. Lady Felicity Belvoir, through her connections to half the families of the ton, kept them aware of social events at which they could canvas for votes in Parliament. Lady Georgiana Hayden was in charge of writing pamphlets to sway opinion, and Lady Constance Whittles marshalled a miniature army of letter writers for the same purpose.

Many of the Society’s members also volunteered at hospitals where injured veterans were nursed and orphanages that cared for veterans’ children.  They visited widows where they lived, some in very insalubrious areas. The duchess agreed with the necessity: how else were they to meet real needs if they did not first talk to those who were suffering? She insisted on the volunteers and visitors travelling in groups and being escorted by stout footmen.

Once all the groups had reported back, they discussed their next fundraising event. The ladies offered one idea after another. The duchess would hold a charity ball, of course, as she did every year, but none of them felt that would be enough to really draw attention to the cause. Something special was called for. Something unusual.

Matilda was not sure who suggested a Venetian Breakfast, but the star suggestion of the day came from a shy girl who was new to the Society. Miss Fairley rose to her feet and waited for Mrs. Berrisford, the meeting’s chair, to notice her.

“I wondered if we might hold a picnic basket auction,” she said, flushing pink at being the center of attention. We have done them at home as fundraisers for the church, and they are very popular.”

Two of the ladies objected that midwinter was hardly time for a picnic, but Mrs. Berrisford called for silence. “Go on, Miss Fairley,” she encouraged. “How does it work?”

“The ladies provide a basket of food,” Miss Fairley explained, “and the gentlemen bid for the right to share the basket with the provider. It is usually the single ladies, of course.” Her voice faded almost to nothing as her blush deepened to scarlet.

Mrs. Berrisford called for order again, as the Society’s members all tried to express an opinion at once.

The duchess rose, and those who had not already stopped talking fell silent to see what she thought. “If we can ensure propriety, ladies, such an auction would be just the thing to bring in donations from the younger gentlemen, who are far more likely to spend their funds on less helpful activities.”

That settled it, of course. Discussion turned to ways and means, and before the meeting was over, several more groups had been established, to cover the various aspects of three events: Venetian Breakfast, auction, and ball, all on the same day.

“Could the auction prize include a dance at the ball later?” Jessica made the suggestion. “That way, gentlemen who have bought a basket will also be obliged to buy a ball ticket.”

The suggestion was met with a hum of approval.

“We will need to enlist the ladies of the ton,” Mrs Berrisford said. “I suggest each of us talks to as many as possible; older ladies to the mothers, younger to the girls. The men, too, of course; but ladies first.”

“We can start at Lady Parkinson’s in two days’ time,” one of the other ladies proposed.

That seemed to be the end of the decision making, though many of the members lingered for another cup of tea and one of the delicious little cakes Monsieur Fournier supplied to the duchess for her meetings.

Matilda and Jessica, in their role as daughters of the house, moved from group to excited group, knowing Her Grace would wish to know what was being said in these more casual conversations.

Everyone was excited by the plans, and more than one person was hoping that the fog would lift so that Lady Parkinson’s soiree would proceed and they could begin their campaign.